


wave of the east, rock of the west

by primaveris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, i tried with the fluff. i really did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26104465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primaveris/pseuds/primaveris
Summary: Istanbul, early 1926. In which to his own surprise Portugal shares a cuppa tea with an old rival before the beginning of the end.Or, Portugal stands on the edge of a cliff and is too adamant for his own good, and Turkey goes for a very last attempt to rescue him.
Relationships: Portugal/Turkey (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	wave of the east, rock of the west

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daoquin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daoquin/gifts).



The former capital was more heated than he’d expected for a spring evening, and Portugal still wondered what he was doing in Turkey. In the _Republic_ of Turkey, he reminded himself.

Turning around the corner of a street whose name he couldn’t pronounce, Portugal mingled with the idea of going back home. The invite had been an uncomfortable surprise in the middle of the stack of letters he’d been receiving these last years, and certain _affairs_ of the past led him to believe _he_ could only be mocking him.

But there would be no need for such a thing. Portugal had known him for centuries enough to know that it would not be in his character to humiliate him that way. Such methods were more often applied by allies than by foes. That much Portugal knew.

He hadn’t bothered to write back, and arriving to what he believed was the correct building, Portugal thought for the first time that perhaps the Turk wasn’t expecting his guest at all.

Too late to turn back now.

A coffee with Turkey. A coffee in Turkey’s home. In Turkey’s home _home._

_What would fifteenth century him tell him if he knew about this?_

The apartment building’s front door was held open, and Portugal made sure not to step on the kitten that had decided to curl up next to it. Cats, Portugal had learned, were one of the very few things both Turkey and Greece revered.

Through a moment of doubt he hesitated, but it had been a pull that had led him to travel all the way to the other side of the Mediterranean, and there was something in him that told him he’d hate himself later for acting so cowardly.

Turkey doesn’t want a fight.

He knocked on the apartment door. Definitely a change in style from some years before.

“ _Come in!_ ”

 _That_ was Turkey’s voice, all right. _Uh. Rude._

Stepping in, he was greeted with a smile. “You’re late, Jibrail.”

Before Portugal could answer, his eyes couldn’t avoid taking a look at the humble, cozy living room Turkey had settled himself in. He’d arrived by sunset, and the room was bathed in a pleasant red.

“You’ve always been a warm greeter, Pasha.” Portugal didn’t bother to fight the smile on his face. There wasn’t a need to, with him. “So you _were_ expecting me?” He quietly closed the door behind him, not wanting to disturb the sudden caress of calmness that swept through him as soon as he stepped into Turkey’s home.

The man ( _Portugal couldn’t call him his friend, could he?_ ) was still seated at the small dinner table in the center of the room. “ _Pasha_ , eh?” His smile became more discreet. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he looked up at Portugal, “but I’m already preparing some coffee. Have a seat. I assume you’ll want it sweet?”

Portugal chuckled and sat across from Turkey. “Why,” he rested his chin on his palm, “you know me better than anyone.”

Turkey glanced at him, stuttered. “Don’t get cocky, brat.” He removed himself from his work and placed his hands atop Portugal’s on the table. “I’m still tryin’ to get the hang of this, but–,” he looked into Portugal’s eyes, “welcome. I know you were never one for big greetings, so–”

 _Oh_. “I never thought I’d be hearing these words from you. Thank you,” he smiled again, shy and warm, and rested his hand on Sadıq’s. The Turk turned red and gently detangled his own to attend the cezve.

“That damned smile of yours again,” he muttered.

It was Portugal’s turn to blush. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?” he asked softly.

“What? Nah, it’s just– whenever you’ve got that smile of yours on your face you worry me. You’ve had it ever since I met you, but it’s gotten worse over the years.”

Portugal didn’t notice he’d been staring at the wall for a little too long. “England said something similar, a few years ago.”

Silence broke out.

It was an awkward one, one that became more stifling the longer it was ignored. Turkey kept preparing the coffee, and Portugal looked out the window to his left. _Since when were sunsets so red?_ The silence was becoming unbearable.

Why did he bring him up?

It was the crinkling of porcelain that relieved the quietness. Turkey poured the coffee into the cups and slid him one. Portugal took it.

“Sorry,” said the Turk finally, “it’s on me. I know you both–”

“You’re apologizing. You’ve really changed, haven’t you, Pasha?”

Turkey chuckled dryly. “You’ve been calling me that for the last four hundred years. Tell me, was it Greece who taught you that one?”

“ _Egypt_. I don’t remember when exactly, or where, but I remember it made us both laugh,” he smiled at the memory. The world had changed a bit ever since. “You’re avoiding the matter though. Tell me, what’s happened?” He gestured curtly at the room, a vague enough motion to let the Turk know what he was implying.

Turkey took a sip of his coffee, seeming to contemplate. “I’ve decided to let go of the old ways. Kinda like you did, you know? Gettin’ rid of all this empire shit, become a modern state.” A pause. “Though, I’d say, it’s been going better for me than for you, hasn’t it?”

For the first time since he’d gotten in the room, Portugal frowned. “Why, it’s just a bit messy. We went a bit too fast, I think, but–”, his eyes darted across the room, avoiding Turkey’s gaze. “But we’ll manage it. What other options do I have?”

Turkey sighed and leaned back. “You know, that’s always been your problem. You’re such a fatalist. Between you and me,” he leaned forward and met Portugal’s eyes with his own. They shone so brightly in the evening sun. “I think it was your husband that screwed up your mind,” he whispered.

Portugal’s eyes widened. “Don’t bring him up, dammit,” he hissed.

“Portekiz–”

Here they were again. “Is this why you invited me here? To humiliate me?” Portugal got up.

“ _Portugal_. Sit down. I didn’t mean to provoke you.”

“You brought him up.”

“I never took you for one to be coddled, I just want to help you–”

“Help me? What for?”

“You know _exactly_ what for.”

Portugal fell silent.

“All of Europe’s talking about it. They’re saying you’ve become too unstable, too unpredictable. If things keep going the way they are, you might fall into a civil war, or worse–”

“And so what? Will I become a threat to you? To any of you? Why should you care–”

“This isn’t about your land. I’m worried about _you_ , Jibrail.”

Portugal slumped back on the chair. He couldn’t swallow back a quiet, short, bitter laugh, almost a sob. “Out of all people–” he muttered. Took a deep breath. Tried not to think.

He smiled at Turkey, soft and honest. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Turkey looked doubtfully at him. “I can’t tell if you’re being sincere–”

“Turkey.”

“Hm?”

Portugal tapped his fingers lightly on the table, considering his next words. “Do you have some of those Turkish Delights?” He began slowly. “I’ve wanted to try them out ever since I laid my eyes on them.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “two hundred years ago.” _What an absurd thing to say._

“Oh.” It seemed to take a while for Turkey to process the words. “Hah, and I made some just for today. Wait, wait,” he got up and went to the cupboard at the end of the room. “Rosewater flavoured. A classic.” A delicate plate full of those little red cubes was placed carefully in front of him. Why was everything in this place so red?

“Can never go wrong with those,” he smiled, sitting back down. It was that smile that was among the very few qualities their kind shared; a smile partly of pride and fondness for a centuries long process of the refining of their people’s gastronomy, and partly of that instinctive hospitality and wish to please which they all harbored in a way or another. “Go on, have a taste,” Turkey offered.

Portugal didn’t hesitate, pride be damned. He had a weakness for sugar. He grabbed a piece, taking a careful bite.

 _Sweet_. Sweet and sticky and– when had been the last time he’d simply sat down and relaxed and enjoyed some quietness– and now, sitting here with Turkey, in Istanbul, having coffee, seemed like a reverie, like a mercy, and he wanted to cry because he knew it’d all be over too soon.

“I’ll take you like it, eh?”

Turkey was still here. They were both still here and he was already mourning the past of the future.

_You’re such a fatalist._

“I do.” Portugal admitted. “They're… much sweeter than I imagined.”

Turkey laughed. “I’ve always known you had a sweet tooth.”

_Wait._

“… Known?”

“Guessed!”

A snort. “Let me guess. Egypt.”

“I told you, I just thought–”

“And he looked like such a secretive kid, back then. Can’t believe he was slipping such _crucial_ secrets away. I hope you were careful around him.”

“As if!” Turkey’s grin held a touch of annoyance to it. “Egypt was a loyal one, unlike the Greek brat– hold up, why were you even talking to _Egypt_?”

“Nothing that ought to concern you,” Portugal hid his smile behind his cup. “Just because he was your territory it doesn’t mean you have to worry about what he does on the sidelines.”

“Yeah, I do!” Turkey sounded indignant at the idea, “besides, that’s rich coming from you,” he muttered.

“And he was a tough one, too,” Portugal’s mind began wandering aimlessly again. “Gave me a headache on the Indian Ocean. As if _you_ weren’t enough. And then you went and lent him a hand, and then the little Dutch and all the other–” He paused abruptly. “You know what? I blame Spain.”

Turkey’s sharp laugh widened Portugal‘s smile. “That kid was the death of you.”

“He was, wasn’t he?” How could he ever be mad at him, though?

Portugal only realised the plate of candy was almost empty when he looked down to reach for another.

“You’ve been grabbing all of’ em.” Turkey’s voice held a tint of amusement to it. “Felt bad calling you out.”

Portugal could feel his face flushing. “You should’ve told me. You don’t have to embarrass me like that,” he grumbled.

Turkey had been looking out to the window. Portugal didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. It was nice, like this. The soft murmurs of the streets below could be heard, muffled yet vibrant, the middling pulse of a young and so old city enduring and breathing.

The silence had gained a different quality to it.

“There’s something you want to tell me,” said Portugal, as carefully as he could.

“I think I’ve already told everything I needed to tell you.” Turkey still didn’t turn to him, to look at him in the eyes, and a tiny part of Portugal was reliving a hurtful memory.

“Something you _want_ to tell me.”

“It’s getting dark.”

“What?”

“You should go home now.”

Portugal’s heart almost sank at the words. “Sorry. Was it something I said? I’ll take it back–” Turkey finally, finally looked at him, eyes wide and tense.

“What? No. It’s getting dark, Portekiz. Unless– if you want, you can sleep here for the–”

“Oh!” Portugal scrambled to get up, “oh, right. No, no, that won’t be necessary, thank you,” they need me back at home. I have so much paperwork to work on, you won’t believe it,“ he laughed quietly, awkwardly.

Turkey was looking at him with a frown.

"Don’t be like that,” sighed Portugal. “It’s not like you to act so worried.”

Turkey got up. “Be careful.”

“I’ve survived until now. And so have you. It’s normal for our kind to reach the end of an era. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve always been a stubborn one,” Turkey shook his head in exasperation after a second, “I can’t really do anything else, can I?” he led them to the entrance door.

Portugal had to grin at him. “You _do_ know me better than anyone else.”

“Take care of yourself, you idiot,” Turkey patted Portugal on the shoulder, and the weight of his hand felt oddly familiar. “I’d hate to see you die by your own hands.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Portugal chuckled, “God really wants me to stay here for the time being.”

Turkey sighed. “Well then. Promise me you’ll invite me to your home sometime soon. It’s only fair, after all.”

Portugal offered him one of his smiles once more and stared at Turkey for a moment, pondering whether he should– No, too soon for that. _Still far too soon._

“I hope… I’ll find the time for that.” Someday. “Thank you,” he whispered. And Turkey knew what he meant. Didn’t he?

“You’ve no need to thank me.” And suddenly Turkey’s voice sounded defeated. “I’ll see you soon.”

Portugal could not bring himself to answer.

~*~

The kitten wasn’t by the front door anymore. The chilly dusk breeze must have made it find warmer shelter. The red sky was turning darker and dimmer, too. Still– It wouldn’t be too bad to linger in Istanbul just a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick notes:
> 
> The 20s were a very meaningful decade for Portugal and Turkey. After the collapse of the monarchy Portugal was living its first republic which was very unstable and frankly, a complete failure, and Turkey disintegrated the Ottoman Empire in exchange for a modern republic. Both states aimed for modernization, democracy and development and were characterized by secularism and deep reformations. Their turnout couldn’t end up more differently, though. Important to mention is that under Mustafa Kemal Atatürk’s leadership Turkey and Greece were able to begin an alliance despite their history. Atatürk was very sensitive and understanding of the Greek position, so please do read about this man!
> 
> Jibrail is the Arabic form of the name Gabriel. The term Pasha has its origins in pre–Ottoman Egypt and refers to high–ranking officials and soldiers of the Ottoman Empire; according to my Turkish friends it’s considered a cute nickname nowadays.
> 
> During WWII, a Jewish refugee in Lisbon wrote in his journal that Portuguese people looked sad even when they were smiling. This isn’t the first nor the last time I’ve come across something like this, and I always found it curious how so many different people from different times came to the same observations about us, so I wanted to play with this motif a bit.
> 
> ((Speaking of motifs, I tried to work a bit with the color red. I wanted it to symbolize its many meanings, from romance to danger to warmth. They kind of reflect Portugal’s own feelings cuz I’m basic.))


End file.
